


The Perfect Distraction

by sweet_ladyy



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Breakup, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, F/M, Nightclub, Rebounding, Smut, but no instance or description of rape, but not quite yet, club hookups, mentions and implications of rape, night club, protective friends, relationship fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-24 14:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_ladyy/pseuds/sweet_ladyy
Summary: When you found out that Roger Taylor would be coming home from tour, you knew you wouldn’t go greet him at the airport, or prepare him a nice candlelit dinner, or even see him at all.No, you wouldn’t do any of that. You’re past all of that. Instead, you decide to call up your friends and have a girl’s night out.OR[Y/N]'s friends take her out to a nightclub to dance away her troubles breaking up with Roger Taylor. She doesn't anticipate what will happen next...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: loosely based on a prompt from @vampire-way : “Hi i’m Nikki and can i request Roger in the late 70’s coming back from tour? Mostly fluff with a tad bit of smut? Thank you” (and when I say “loosely based,” I mean verrrrrrrrry loosely based. I really diverted a lot whoops)
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to be taken as truth or fact. I do not claim to own Brian May, Queen, or any other affiliated names or fictional events.
> 
> A/N: not sure where I got this idea LOL. I think I just wanted a “Roger Taylor Homecoming” that wasn’t a stock plot. It turned into this. Part 2 to come later. Enjoy. Also: no true instances of rape and no descriptions of rape, but rather only implications of possible rape.

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

When you found out that Roger Taylor would be coming home from tour, you knew you wouldn’t go greet him at the airport, or prepare him a nice candlelit dinner, or even see him at all.

No, you wouldn’t do any of that. You’re past all of that. Instead, you decide to call up your friends and have a girl’s night out.

The girls come over to your apartment to get ready. “He had his chance,” Sarah huffs while fussing over your makeup. She’s using an awful lot of some shimmery kohl-colored eyeshadow tint, but you trust her to do well with it.

“If he’d wanted a grand homecoming from you, he might have called at least, I dunno,  _once_ while on tour,” Lexi adds, examining the fit of her evening dress in the mirror.

“Can we talk about anybody  _but_ Roger right now?” you say. “The point of this night is to try to  _forget_ about him.”

“Don’t worry, [Y/N],” calls Nina from your kitchen. “We’re gonna find someone for you tonight that’ll make Roger look like a loser twink.”

Roger Taylor had fucked you over. Not only had he not called even once over his band’s entire three-month tour, but you have more than sufficient evidence to believe he was involved with those skank-ass groupies that followed him around to every city like a pack of rabid puppies. In other words, he cheated on you. At least, you think he did.

So last week, you’d called the hotel you knew they were staying at. But instead of Roger, you’d asked for Brian.  _“Tell Roger it’s over between us,”_ you’d said.  _“Forever. And tell him: I know what you did.”_

 _“Whoa, [Y/N], what are you talking about?”_ Brian had said over the phone.  _“Roger didn—”_

 _“Don’t try to cover for him, Brian. Just please tell him we’re over. I never want to speak to him ever again.”_ And then you’d hung up.

Roger Taylor is now your  _ex-_ boyfriend. He hadn’t even been your boyfriend for more than a few months before it was all over.

It hurt a lot to say all of that, even if it was just to Brian. But you’ve had a week to sob it out and eat all the ice cream you wanted. It’s time to put on your big girl shoes now…in the form of a pair of strappy stilettos.

“That’s right, you need to forget him. And that’s why we’re gonna make you look and feel hot as hell tonight,” says Sarah, powdering your face. “Okay… Done. Look in the mirror, tell me what you think.”

You certainly think you look and feel hot as hell. The black around your eyes makes you look sexy and mysterious. The dress you lent from Sarah emphasizes all the right curves. For a split second, you wish Roger would be seeing you tonight, just so you could turn your back on him and he could watch you leave, realizing who he missed out on.

_Bad idea._

“Sarah, you’re a godsend,” you beam, kissing her cheeks. “Let’s go make some bad decisions!”

“And then proceed to forget them all!” says Lexi. You all laugh.

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

The nightclub is blasting disco music, and because you know how much Roger Taylor hates disco music, you decide right now that you absolutely love it.

You twist and turn your body, laughing and giggling with your best friends beside you. The dance floor is dark, save for the glinting reflections of blue and pink off the disco ball. The lights multiply and flit about the walls like a kaleidoscope in your inebriated mind.

The song changes to something by the Jacksons. You laugh, reveling in the numbness of your mind and the way you can barely register the other bodies bumping into you. Nina grasps your arm and whispers in your ear, “Look to your left.”

You do. There’s a gorgeous man standing at the bar, holding a drink, eyes directly on you. He looks as young as you, with bright eyes and a short beard, and he’s dressed well.

“He’s been looking at you for awhile,” says Nina excitedly.

“He’s cute,” you comment, smirking.

“Don’t make it too obvious!” Sarah shrieks, grabbing your shoulders to turn you away.

But you don’t care if you’re being obvious. You turn again to look at the man. He smiles at you then, an alluring, inviting gesture.

“I’m gonna go over there,” you tell the girls. They giggle and push you in his direction.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you your entire trek across the dance floor. “Drink?” he asks.

“Martini,” you reply. He turns to order for you. He smells as good as he looks.

“You look like you’re having fun out there,” he says to you. His voice is low and pleasant.

Feeling bold, you reply with, “You look like the perfect distraction.”

He laughs at that. “I can be anything you want me to be, love.”

He is tall, with dark hair and dark eyes — the complete and utter opposite of Roger Meddows Taylor, you think. But just to make sure, you ask him, “Are you by chance a musician?”

“No, actually, I’m positively tone-deaf.”

“You’re perfect, then.”

You and the man — you learn his name is Mark — laugh and drink over small talk for awhile before he takes your hand and pulls you onto the dance floor. He’s the perfect leader; you certainly need it, given you’re one more drink further along now than you had been before. His hands on your hips feel foreign and yet familiar as you dance to the deafening beat of the music. You can’t be sure — your sense of visual focus is greatly diminished — but you sense his eyes roaming over your lips, your chest, your ass as you dance before him.

You’re sweaty and feeling electrified. He’s a good dancer. He hands you a glass of water and says, “Drink this, or you’ll become dehydrated.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” you coo, drinking the water appreciatively.

The music becomes heavier, slower, and before long, Mark’s rough mouth finds your ear. The world is spiraling and swirling, more than it should be. He’s whispering naughty things in your ear, his beard scratching your skin in a lovely way, when suddenly you see  _him._

He’s standing at the entrance of the club, blue eyes glued to yours. He watches, silent, as Mark’s hand travels down your sides to your hips, then lower, reaching underneath the hem of your dress.

And then he’s charging forward.

Roger seizes the other man’s arm — the one attached to the hand groping under your dress — and yanks him away from you, hard. And then Roger’s arm becomes a blur as he lands a violent blow to Mark’s cheek.

“No one messes with my girl,” he growls.

Gasps ripple across the crowd, which densens into a circle surrounding the fight. Mark recovers, rubbing his sore jaw, eyes fire. He draws his fists up, nearly snarling. Roger charges at him again. And then they’re both swinging.

Mark is taller and stronger, but Roger is quick and sober. He dodges Mark’s clumsy fists easily and shoves the man to the ground, climbing over him. He kicks and punches, his blonde hair flailing, his face twisted in jealous fury.

“Roger, stop it!” you cry out, the world spinning and spinning as you attempt to drag your ex off the other man. “Roger!  _Roger!!!”_

Two of the nightclub’s bouncers break through the congregation of onlookers, then. It takes the both of them to drag Roger away from Mark, who is still on the floor, face bruised and bloody, clutching his side in agony.

One of your friends — Lexi — crouches down beside Mark. “Are you okay???”

“Fucking lunatic!!” he spits. “I’m getting fucking out of here. Throw this wanker in a jail cell!”

“Oh, god,” you whisper. You reach your hands out, trying to find something to hold onto. But you can’t steady yourself, and you nearly fall. Sarah catches you, bracing your body against hers and holding you up by your arms. Your vision is blackening in your periphery.  _Something is very wrong._

“[Y/N]? What’s going on???” Sarah cries. Your knees buckle.

“He fucking drugged her drink!” you hear Roger snarling as the bouncers drag him away, but the sound sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel. “I  _saw_ it!  _I saw it!_ ”

And then, the world goes black.

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kisses you. His mouth is hard and sure, his hands desperate against your hips like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. Your entire heart jumpstarts; it’s been so long, too long, since his lips were on yours. And you’ve fucking missed it.
> 
> It’s too much. Bringing your hands up to his chest, you want to push him away, but you feel hot tears on your cheeks. And they’re not yours.
> 
> Roger Meddows Taylor never cries.
> 
> “[Y/N],” he whispers when he finally breaks away from you, his breath quavering against your face. “I’m so sorry.”
> 
> Your heart shatters at his reaction. And then you think about where his mouth has probably been the past three months.
> 
> So you push him away, then, and it feels like trying to separate two magnets. “You’re only sorry I found out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: implications of rape (but no rape.) a bit of angst, and this part has SMUT (18+ only)
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to be taken as truth or fact. I do not claim to own Roger Taylor, Queen, or any other affiliated names or fictional events.

 

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

 

When you finally wake up, it feels like you’ve been in a car accident.

Everything aches before you even open your eyes, and when you do, the light in the room is blinding. And then the headache comes so violently, you promptly lean over the edge of the bed and retch. Someone had placed a trash can there, and you’re grateful for it as you vomit. It’s like the worst imaginable hangover.

“[Y/N]? Oh, gosh…” It’s Sarah. She rushes into the room, holding your ponytail out of your face. She presses a cool compress to your forehead, and it makes you shiver despite the sweat. “You poor thing.”

“What… What happened?”

“You don’t remember anything?”

“Not… Not really.” The last memory you have before the blackness is Roger Taylor’s doe-eyed face. “Did I see Roger?”

“Yes, but…” Her lips press together in an uncharacteristic sort of wrath. “He wasn’t the problem. It was that asshole — god, that asshole perv we  _encouraged_ you to go dance with!”

“What are you talking about?”

“He slipped roofies into your drink! He was going to…” She wraps her arms around your neck then, hair tickling your nose. “[Y/N], it was so scary. I’m so sorry.”

_What?_

Roger. Roger had been there… He had attacked Mark.  _Oh god,_ somehow Roger knew what Mark had done with your drink,  _what he was going to do._ You feel sick all over again thinking about it, and you retch, but your stomach is empty. Sarah holds your hair again.

“Roger,” you groan.

“He’s not here, but he’s been calling all morning. Here, drink this.” She hands you a glass of water, which you sip tentatively. “Roger just so happened to find out where you were clubbing with us last night. He decided to show up… And he was the only one who watched Mark drug your drink.”

“But I never set my drink down or anything…”  _The glass of water._ “Oh, no.”  _God_ , you were such an idiot.

“If Roger hadn’t come and beat the guy bloody, you would have…” Sarah’s head drops to her hands. “And we would have let you go home with him.”

“You didn’t know, Sarah,” you reassure her. “It’s not your fault.”  _Only his._

“I need to call Nina and Lexi to let them know you’re okay. And… and Roger.” She sighs. “I know you didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, but I need to tell him you’re okay.”

“I know…” And you know you need to thank him, too. Despite everything.

—

Luckily, Sarah stays over with you as long as you need to recover. She takes all your phone calls for you, and helps you rehydrate and recover. She’s patient and loving, taking off work to dedicate all her time to watching cheesy rom-coms and cooking you dinner.

You find out from her what happened in the aftermath of the fight between Roger and Mark. The bouncers at the nightclub called the police, who took both men back to the station for questioning. Roger gave his testimony. Mark was found with a supply of Rohypnol — the same substance they found in the drink he gave you. They let Roger go; Mark is in jail.

It takes you two days before you feel well enough to even entertain the idea of letting Roger visit.

“He wants to see you this evening,” Sarah says, returning from the kitchen where she’d answered the phone.

You sigh, your stomach feeling fluttery. “What am I supposed to say to him?”

“Thank you?”

“Well, I know, but… Other than that.”

Sarah takes a deep breath, sitting on the corner of the bed you’ve been confined to for days. She hands you a mug of tea. “I don’t know, [Y/N]. What do you want to tell him?”

That you don’t know what you would have done without him at the bar. That you don’t know what you’re going to do without him, period.  _That you miss him._ “I’ll figure it out.”

“How do you feel?”

“I feel fine now. No more headache or anything. Just tired from being bedridden.”

She purses her lips, standing to kiss the top of your head. “I’m going to call him back, tell him to come over. And [Y/N]…”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t forget how much he hurt you. Don’t let him get off the hook too easily.”

“Okay. Thank you for being the best Mom Friend.”

She smiles and squeezes your hand before leaving.

—

An hour later, you answer a knock at the door. Roger stands with a hunched posture, wringing his hands. He looks at you through his eyelashes. It’s nearly irresistible.

“Sarah says you’re feeling better?”

“Yeah.” You pull open the door wider, pulling your sweater tightly around your waist. “Come in.”

He steps inside your apartment tentatively. Now that your mind is clear, you see him more vividly than the other night. Three months of touring is evident by his unruly blond locks. His lip is busted but healing. Stubble shadows his chin and jaw. His eyes are ringed with dark circles from sleeplessness.

You look better than he does, and you’re the one who got drugged.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask, feeling much too casual. Much too cordial.

“You don’t need to do anything for me, [Y/N],” he says. “Besides, I’m sure you don’t want to draw this out any longer than needed.”

He doesn’t  _sound_ acerbic; in fact, he sounds as dejected as he looks.

_He’s not the victim here._

_Well, he wants to cut it to the chase? So be it._  “I wanted to thank you for… well, for saving me from that guy at the bar,” you say, hating the word  _saving_ because it makes him sound like a goddamn Disney prince. “Sarah told me all about what happened. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you weren’t there to…”

You trail off. Roger is still as a statue, save the flexing tendon in his jaw. The kitchen wall clock ticks; a dog howls in the distance.

You can’t help it. You spill.

“Why didn’t you ever call me?” The taunting threat of tears stings your eyes. “I know we weren’t in the best place before you left for tour… Okay, I know we were fighting a lot before you left. But you’re — you  _were_ still my boyfriend. Do you know how much it hurt that you never even bothered to call, not once? How many hours I wasted sitting around the living room waiting around like a fucking damsel—”

He kisses you. His mouth is hard and sure, his hands desperate against your hips like he’s terrified you’ll pull away. Your entire heart jumpstarts; it’s been so long,  _too long,_ since his lips were on yours. And you’ve fucking missed it.

It’s too much. Bringing your hands up to his chest, you want to push him away, but you feel hot tears on your cheeks. And they’re not yours.

Roger Meddows Taylor never cries.

“[Y/N],” he whispers when he finally breaks away from you, his breath quavering against your face. “I’m so sorry.”

Your heart shatters at his reaction. And then you think about where his mouth has probably been the past three months.

So you push him away, then, and it feels like trying to separate two magnets. “You’re only sorry I found out.”

“Found out?” He tries to step closer. “[Y/N]… You can’t be talking about—”

“It’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve seen the tabloids, Roger.” You’re referring to a magazine that came out recently — Lexi had found the article and showed it to you — featuring a picture of your then-boyfriend lounging on a couch, arms draped over two scantily-clad women. You  _knew_ Roger’s past experience with groupies in his younger years. Hell, he’d even told you about them, and you both had laughed about it over glasses of whiskey ages ago.

“You’re going to take those rubbish magazines as truth? [Y/N], they’re mad!”

“I was a fool to think you’d turn out to be a different man than you are.”

“[Y/N], please, you’ve got to believe me… [Y/N]!” You turn away, walking toward the kitchen so he can’t see you wipe the tears from your cheeks, yours intermixing with his. You won’t show him how torn up you are by it. But he seizes your hand and turns you around to face him. His eyes are crystalline.

“[Y/N], I swear on my own grave that I have never once cheated on you. The tabloids were lies. I never slept with anyone on tour. I’ll swear it on Brian’s Red Special, on Freddie’s voice, on my right hand, on Deaky’s wife and kids.”

He’d really compromise his friends like that to cover his own ass?

“And I didn’t call you because I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me. I knew we weren’t through, but…I thought you needed a break from me.” He sighs.

There  _had_ been a big fight before he left for tour. He was drunk, you were drunk, and regrettable words came out of both mouths. “I don’t think that’s reasonable grounds to cut off all communication entirely,” you whisper.

“You didn’t call me, either, [Y/N],” he says, acid in his tone of voice. “Except to tell Brian to tell me we were through.”

He’s right, you know it. But you don’t know what to say.

“But we’re not through,” he continues, matter-of-factly. “Are we?”

“I don’t know, Roger,” you answer truthfully. Every fibre in your being screams at you to forgive him…to apologize yourself.

But before you can consider any longer, Roger reaches into a satchel he’s carrying. He pulls out a stack of envelopes and hands them to you. They’re…letters?

There must be fifteen or so envelopes, each sealed with your name and address neatly written in Roger’s handwriting on the front. You frown, looking up at Roger. He nods.

You open the first letter.

_[Y/N],_

_Our argument last week seems really stupid now. I’m sorry I got so drunk and yelled those things at you. And I’m sorry I decided to play drums over you when you tried to talk to me. One day, I’ll find a way to make it up to you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I realize that now._

_You don’t want to talk to me, but I miss talking to you. So I’m gonna write to you every few days instead._

_We’re in Dublin now! The city is cool. I almost successfully pushed Brian into the River Liffey (just because he would have looked like a wet poodle) but John held me back. You would have laughed at Brian’s face. You would like a lot about Dublin. I’m thinking of you. I wish you would come on our next tour. If I can find a way to have you forgive me._

_Yours forever (even if you don’t want it),_

_Roger_

You gape at Roger, completely dumbfounded. “All of these… You wrote all of these for me to read?”

He smiles gently, wringing his hands as he talks, which mesmerizes you. “Since I didn’t think we’d be talking on the telephone, I didn’t know what to do for awhile. But I knew I wanted to talk to you… I wasn’t sure all tour when I was going to give them to you. I wasn’t even sure I’d end up giving them to you at all. But, well…it’d be a lot of ink wasted if I didn’t.”

You can’t help it. You throw your arms around him and kiss him.

He inhales sharply, taken aback. His arms are hovering somewhere above your back like he’s not sure this is really happening. You start moving your lips against his, to let him know that it  _is_ happening.

A surprised, relieved sound comes from the back of his throat. And then his hands are buried in your hair. And you never want his skin off of yours ever again.

You pull away to study his face, the crease of his frown, the red of his lips, the confusion in his eyes. You caress his jaw. “I miss you,” you breathe.  _Present tense._

“I miss you,” he says back.

“I’m so sorry,” you both say at the same time. And then he’s pulling you close again like it’s the only thing he can do.

There’s a new intensity present between you and Roger, something that encompasses the rich severity of all the emotions you’d both just cycled through. You find yourself desperately pressing your torso against his. His embrace makes your whole body feel like a furnace. All reservations are forgotten. All that’s left is a distant, detached memory of anger and hurt.

Roger’s touch grows more and more frantic. As if the world is in fast motion, your shirt is off and on the floor, his following suit. His mouth finds where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and nibbling the skin there just the way he knows you like it.

You don’t know who led who there, but somehow your and Roger’s intertwined bodies find your bedroom. You collapse beneath him onto the unmade bed in a flurry of sloppy kisses. Hands race to find the most skin. Blue eyes like the sea rapidly search your face for any sign of caution. Finding none, Roger breathes a heavy exhale and removes your sweatpants and his trousers. It’s been so long,  _so damn long,_ since you’ve been with him like this. And he’s all you can think about.

When he finally enters you, it’s as if the sun explodes in your core. He’s fervent at your warmth and wetness, and there’s a familiar feral glint in his eyes. You claw at his back, feeling high, feeling unreal. The sensation of him, him,  _him,_ all around you and inside of you…it makes you arch your back, pining for him: “Roger, oh my god, Roger…”

The thrusting, at first slow and jarring, settles into a steady pace. He brings his torso down against yours, burying his face in your neck, moaning. And then you’re climaxing, suddenly, out of nowhere, at the sensation of his warm breath on your ear, his gentle, repeated moaning: “I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry.” He follows you over the edge.

The stillness that follows is broken only by your collective heaving breaths. And then his hand caresses the back of your head and he kisses your forehead over and over again. He whispers in your ear words of affirmation: “You’re so brilliant, [Y/N]…  so brilliant.” And then a realization occurs to you, one that was lost in the pleasure before.

Roger said he loves you.

You peer up through your eyelashes at him, and ask, “Did you mean it?”

“That you’re brilliant?”

“No…”

“That I love you?”

“Yes.”

“I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything in the whole world.”

You smile contentedly and close your eyes, whispering the words back to him: “I love you too.”

“You were all I could think about when we came back from tour. I had to see you. I planned on apologizing that night.”

You sit up, brushing your sweaty hair from your face. Roger traces little patterns on your back. “How did you know where to find me, anyway?”

He smiles, a little sheepishly. “I made Nina tell me where you and the girls were going.”

“Damn. Nina would,” you say with half-hearted ire. “And she knew I was trying to avoid you.”

“I knew that. And I thought I might try to respect your decision, but…” He holds the back of your neck. “I needed you to know. [Y/N]. You’re the love of my life. It was a mistake to have ever treated you like you weren’t. And I will never,  _never_ hurt you ever again. I swear it on my life.”

You poke his side and say: “As long as you don’t swear anything on Brian’s Red Special again.”

 

♛♛♛♛♛♛♛♛

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you enjoyed! uwu ily all


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